I get to the airport an hour early, there’s hardly a line at security, and then I’m seated in 18J.
The flight feels like it goes on forever. I just want to see him. Wrap my arms around him. I know when I get to him I’ll feel grounded, reoriented. I know when I get to him I’ll forget. It’ll be like it never happened, because it didn’t.
We land into a rainstorm. There are some delays on the ground, trying to find a gate, but once we are guided in we deboard quickly. I take the escalator down to baggage claim, and there, at the bottom of the steps, is Leo.
He’s holding a sign:My Wife, and as soon as I see it, and him, I take off running. I push past people, my rolling bag nipping at my ankles, and then I’m in his arms. He catches me, his body holds the force.
“Hi,” he says into my ear. “I had to give you a proper welcome.”
“I love you,” I say. I take in his smell, his warmth, the strength of his body. How did I forget? “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
It’s not until we pull apart that I realize I am crying.
“What?” Leo asks. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “I’m just happy.”
“Be happy with less tears,” he says. “We’re OK, right?”
I look into his eyes.
“Right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Leo lifts my bag off the carousel, and we wind our way out of arrivals and through the parking structure.
“One of the guys lent me their car,” Leo says.
He heaves my duffel into the back of a Kia Sorento and then comes around and opens my door for me. “M’lady.”
Inside smells like peanuts and pine cone air freshener. I feel simultaneously nostalgic and nauseous.
Leo gets inside. He always waits until the car starts beeping at him to put on his seat belt, and it drives me crazy. I start to say something and then stop myself.
“How did your parents take it?” he asks.
“I texted my mom.”
Leo looks at me. “Jesus, Lauren. You have to be nicer to her.”
“No, I know. I’ll call her when we get there.”
Leo takes my hand. “She deserves a little more than you give her, sometimes.”
I push out a breath. “Sometimes.”
We head to Brooklyn. Production rented Leo a second-story apartment in Cobble Hill that’s full of light and crown molding.It’s simple—the kitchen is half bathroom—but I love it. I’d love anything.
The walls are painted cheerful colors—dusty rose for the bedroom, yellow for the living/dining area. And the kitchen cabinets are robin’s-egg blue.
“This place is great,” I tell him. “I love it.” I flip down onto the pastel velvet love seat. “I could live here.”
Leo laughs. “I don’t think we can afford to live here.”
I study him from the couch. He’s lost a few pounds these past few weeks; he always does when he’s working. Too focused, too busy. He hasn’t shaved in at least a week—stubble filling in, turning to an almost beard. I like it.
